Gene Simmons Sex Tape

That's really all I have to say. He's gross, it's gross, and I love it.

Why are we all competing with this dead guy?

I sit here typing this in some dudes house. Actually more important I type this in San Diego. Still not exactly sure what I’m doing here besides hanging with a buddy of mine. This place doesn’t really seem like San Diego though. I want to call it Palm Diego Dale but it doesn’t roll off the tongue all that smoothly. And it sounds really f’ing stupid. There’s this sort of desert setting that can fool you in to believing you’re in some god forsaken part of Arizona, but then you pass Qualcomm stadium and it’s like oh… yeah this is San Diego. People will probably fight this view till they die but my lone impression of San Diego is becoming an awesome one with cacti. I SWEAR TO YOU I’m looking out at rocky mountains and cactus.

Now that I’m done lying to you people that I’m in San Diego when I’m really in the middle of Montana I can’t say for sure what this weekend holds. With maybe 20 dollars to my name I’ve already dodged the bullet of Indian Casinos. Although I know I can win. I wonder what the spread is for the All Star game…

Because the title of this entry will probably send me straight to hell I won't bother explaining it.

This is my real Valentine

I plan on watching VHS Kyuss all day on Thursday

This is your math homework. I hate you.

Homework doesn't freak me out anymore. Mainly because it's non existent here in college.

This is my High Desert rage

I can't lie to myself. I only feel the urge to write while I'm in a pissant killing mood.

All this rage can't be attributed to one event. It never can. Grouping things in to one group is... nice? Oh my god I hate the word nice right now. Nice is the embodiment of sugar and spice and everything nice. See, the word nice is stupid as hell. You're stupid as hell. In a previous post that was never published I stated that I liked standing on a mountain overlooking Palmdale. I like writing things that people can't see. I want to write letters to people in invisible ink. I find it to be the biggest f-you of all time.

I think I want to sit myself underwater for a while. If I wasn't 90% sure that the bathtub in the dorm bathroom is constructed completely out of AIDS I would totally fill it up. You know, and bathe in it. At the moment I just sit here bathing in my misery. It's that kind of gentle misery. Sort of like gentle prison sodomy. Sweet sweet prison sodomy.

I'm thinking of more violent metaphors. Sadly none have yet to surface.

I hate how writing is the only way to calm the beast because I was supposed to be asleep an hour ago. Writing is nothing but manic ranting for me I think. Not even completely entertaining ranting. If your grandfather ranting drunk makes you laugh as hard as it does me. Then imagine myself being your drunk great grandfather who doesn't really rant as much as just dies. I AM YOUR DYING GREAT GRANDFATHER

IN short your asses are going to get haunted, assuming that two people are reading this at the same time. There's a better chance of dividing by zero.

Roy Scheider died! Have you ever seen the French Connection!? Most bad ass movie of all time! Sure Jaws was sweet. Except every sequel to Jaws blew bigger and bigger shark dicks. French Connection? The second one was better than the first (except that Roy Scheider wasn't in it). So since the second one was better than the first I had to kill myself because deep down I knew there wouldn't be a third one. Hollywood knew they couldn't possibly make a better one. Gene Hackman had already gone through Heroin withdrawls in the second one. The third one would have been what, Crystal Meth? That just looks tacky. Every second of both the movies is tension. Tension of being caught, tension of catching someone else, tension of sitting in a car trying to get a lead to just keep their jobs, and on top of all that the incredible sexual tension between Gene Hackman and every single female character in the movie. AND THEN THE SHARK BLOWS UP.

The Phoenix suns died! Shaq? In short they traded a vital part to the intricacy of the suns, for a fucking retard who would rather bitch at kids for not working out than step on a treadmill himself. They drafted a cripple. His big toe is in a constant state of steroid withdrawls. Instead of working, it sort of just breaks all the time. Here's to hoping Barbosa just sits on Shaqs shoulder and dunks from half court. It's Space Jam without Michael Jordan. Awesome if I was a kid. Really gay now that I understand the movie is about Basketball.

I wish the whole movie was just Michael Jordan's baseball career. So as long as the movie was a miserable downward spiral they could maybe market it as a documentary on Michael Jordan's actual Baseball career.

Hate.

Cold coffee and cold cars

My phones turned off. Sadly my mind has been torn into fractional amounts. Tonight can be described as nothing more than a... night? Not bad. Not good. Different. Still wondering where I stand in Palmdale. I liked it over looking the city though. Think i'll stand there for a while.

In much more important news Roger Clemens ass blood is worth millions of dollars. I mean why else would his trainer keep all the needles he ever used to juice Clemens up?

The Sun can't be good for Shaq...

I'm glad that the Suns are making a full fledged effort to put a championship away.

Since I haven't gotten a chance to veg out on Sportscenter all day my sole source of info on this subject is assorted yahoo sports articles (which are usually heavily opinionated pieces of bullshit) and this nifty little article.
http://sports.espn.go.com/nba/dailydime?page=dime-080207

While I don't know who Marc Stein is, nor do I care, he does a pretty decent job as a sports writer putting himself out of his own huge inflated egotistical worldt to write a story.

Joshua Tree is burning

I love the smell of burning hookah coals. My favorite pastime though I fear is going to hell in my head and stomach. Honkah is that common friend between people that's really REALLY good at introducing everyone to everyone.

I need to make it a habit of not giving my entries such bad ass titles. After the title I can't come up with anything good that'll top it.

Just know that Anon is legion

Studies say you do not need breathing to live

It's been a flawless season. Yet when it matters, no one can help but screw up... Hard.



My teenage angst is summed up into a little piece of jewelery called the belly button ring. Not even always a ring but sometimes that little piece of chain that hangs in the general area. Never clear where it's attached, top, bottom, ribcage? I don't know. Really all this has just dawned on me. Being able to comprehend something while trying to write about it is hard, but just like everything else in my life I will wing it.

Shiny yet subtle the belly button ring tempts me with its overall elusiveness within the girls I've dated. When I come to think of it the only chick I had known all that well with a belly button ring was my Mom... Except the fact that hers went violent and started eating her stomach.

Belly piercings, if anything, have become the anti symbol to girls I want.

From what I know, two previous girlfriends have since gotten their stomachs pierced with an iron lance. In return I've been pierced in the heart with uhm... something made of pig metal probably. Probably the thing that gave my mom stomach bubonic plague.

So uhm there was an election? Because some one said Hillary and all I could think of was erection. lolololololololololololololol

It's almost three in the morning. My creative fuel is slowly dripping out of my rectum.



Damn near killed him.



Next article is about Dolemite.

For Black History Month yo.

San Diego 120

Being one with Saturday night i'm incredibly disappointed that nothing is going on tonight. Not that i've turned in to some sort of raging party machine. Fueling the machine through constant backyard blizzards is my greatest nightmare. At this point though I am just looking to make up for the amount of parties I missed in High School.

Speaking of High School the only thing I want to do now is wait for the coming rain and smoke a cigarette in it. Only thing is I don't smoke. I smoke sometimes but only under the condition that i'm very miserable and that a cigarette wouldn't make me feel better, but just help me bask in the misery. In my head it looks like something iconic. Completely cut off from the reality that I look like a douche bag smoking in the rain at two in the morning. Then again when did I ever care what I look like. (Insert Everybody Loves Raymond audience laughter here)

Inspiration is coming in sporadic orgasms so if this post seems choppy and incoherent that is my defense.

It would be far too cliche' to write about my buddies little shin dig in San Diego last night but I have to acknowledge it just because it was fun. I had a good time. Met some bizzarre people a.k.a. person. High fived my roommate as he hung out his truck and died.

These disconjointed thoughts are being driven by this amazing album. Scanners is the band. Violence is Golden is the Album. So now I have to thank Monica because if it wasn't for stalking her though myspace I would have never heard the best song on the CD. "Lowlife" is that type of song that you hear then shortly follow with a "Woah". After that all you can think of is having this be your anthem for the season. Driving I can hear it. Talking to girls I can hear it. Heating Black Tar heroin I can hear it playing in the background.

No wonder i'm so bored now. It's Sunday. OH SHI-- Super Bowl

I've never cared less for a football game. Even though the two teams have fascinating back stories it just feels bleh. It feels like the Raiders are playing the Jaguars or something. One team I hate with a passion while the other I DGAF* to the max.

All I want is to sleep in a dorm at CSUN once more and Diary of a Rock Star by Ian Hunter from Mott The Hoople. There's a little story in there where Ian Hunter goes with Keith Moon to visit Frank Zappa. I love that sheet.

*DGAF - Ultimate bro term for Dont give a fuck. Usually used in the sense of not giving a fuck.